Sitting on a stool at the bar, Nine examined the handwritten letter from Steve Reynolds while Peter stood beside her leaning on the end of the bar. He watched her brow furrow, the way her nose scrunched when she concentrated. Cute. Her eyes shot back to the top of the page, and she read the message again.

Peter grabbed the bottle of wine, and refilled their glasses. The wine wasn’t from his sister’s vineyard, a cheaper brand from the warmer end of the valley, but it tasted fine.

Nine stayed late nearly every night to clean up and keep him company. He appreciated her help, but more than anything he enjoyed being near her. And the kiss the other night. A quick peck, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“This Reynolds guy seems like a slippery one,” said Nine. She set the letter down, and gazed at Peter. “So the coffin, the guns, the packs of blood, it all belongs to this Kandy Knight. And you’re supposed to find her and help her. Is that it?”

Peter shrugged, and then nodded.

“And what about that powder we inhaled? This letter doesn’t mention it.”

“That’s what bothers me, too. It’s almost as if the coffin was rigged to release the powder so that the person opening it would breathe it in.”

“You, Peter,” said Nine. She held her head in her hands. “Reynolds wanted you to inhale that shit. Do you suppose that’s what he meant about a cure? Are we supposed to take that serum to cure whatever that powder infected us with?”

Slipping off the stool, Nine wrapped her arms around Peter and hugged him tight.

“We both feel fine,” said Peter. Squeezing her felt like sunshine melting frost. “Shouldn’t we feel sick if he wanted to encourage us to take his cure? We could just ignore it all.”

“But we can’t,” said Nine. She looked up him, her eyes intense. “You’re in his debt now for the expensive sword and the car, even. We should try to find Kandy Knight. Maybe she’s the only one that needs the serum.”

Peter kissed Nine. He hadn’t intended to; it just happened. On the corner of her mouth, his smooch was practically a friendly gesture. Although her body pressing close felt dangerous, and she kissed him back, full on. Gaze locked on hers, unspoken word passed between them. Upstairs?

Peter released Nine and took a big gulp of wine, the sharp scent filling his nose.

“It’s getting late,” said Nine.

“What about the serum? Do you think we should take it just in case?”

Nine shook her head. “The letter doesn’t give us a timeline. I think we should find Kandy first and work this out with her.”

Peter nodded. It sounded reasonable.

“Besides, you’d be stupid to go injecting a strange drug without knowing what it is first.”

Peter agreed and wished Nine a good night. He watched her disappear into the kitchen, and listened to the delivery door slam closed. The ache he felt after she left told him he should have stolen another kiss. In his book, having a sexual relationship with an employee was a sin, and his thoughts about her felt dirty.

Climbing the stairs, between the second floor and the third, he spotted movement. At first he didn’t understand what it was he was looking at. At the top of the stairs, a shape melted out of the darkness, a woman’s figure. Stepping back, he missed the step and fell.

He tucked his head down as his legs flew up and over. Somewhere on the second floor landing, as he rolled, he wondered if he had remembered to renew his health plan. There wasn’t any pain, just shaking and rolling as he watched the ceiling spin around into the stairs. Something cracked against his elbow, and darkness swept him.

Head throbbing, Peter opened his eyes finding blinding light, and squeezed them shut. His head throbbed all the way into his chest. Lifting his hand sent a jolt into his elbow. He opened his eyes finding wavy colors within brilliant light. Slowly, the light faded and he saw the ceiling of the restaurant and the second floor balcony.

At the bottom of the stairs, he felt like a turtle stuck on his back with one leg on the steps and the other twisted underneath him. Touching his face, he found blood under his nose and more in his hair above his ear. He tried raising his head, but a thunder of pain pulled him down again.

Everyone had left for the night. Keeping his head down, he reached around checking the damage. His leg hurt almost as much as his arm did, but both limbs moved. Rolling just enough to get his hand to his back pocket, he reached for his phone.

His pocket was empty.

Moving his head made the throbbing worse, but gritting teeth, he summoned his strength to look around. His phone rested on the floor beside the leg of the nearest table just out of reach.

Twisting onto his side, he pulled his foot free. No break there. Testing his other limbs, he found everything in working order. Rolling over, he climbed onto his hands and knees. His head felt so heavy, he let it hang for a moment.

Left hand first, right knee second, he began to crawl. Each motion resulted in a pop in his head, and he cringed. Right hand planted, he slid his left knee. Left hand, right knee. Right hand, left knee, he made it to his phone.

Screen cracked corner to corner, his phone was dead.

He said a word he hoped no one ever heard him say, and he didn’t want to repeat it because it made his head hurt like hell.

Nine. He wanted to hold Nine in his arms.

He thought about crawling to the restaurant phone at the front. Who would he call? If he managed to make it that far, he probably didn’t need a hospital. A check-up maybe. Nine?

What time was it?

The damn phone was dead, and it couldn’t tell him the time.

Stairs.

He managed to climb to his feet, swaying, gripping the handrail like an old man. He could lay on the sofa, and if he still had a headache in the morning he would make an appointment with a physician to make sure he didn’t have a concussion.

Someone had been upstairs in the hall. He thought about calling out, but any person with good intentions would already be at his aid. An intruder?

Guns. The guns were in the office, but so was the intruder if the intruder hadn’t already left.

By the time he reached the second floor, the throbbing subsided to a dull thump echoing his heart. On the third floor, he was practically walking normal. At the top of the stairs, he spotted her.

There in his office, a woman sat in his chair behind his desk. Dark, wavy hair fell on her shoulders. Her flesh appeared pale in the glow of the monitor, but her lips were luscious red. Nine had mentioned how she put makeup on the dead at her family funeral home. It was like that, bright red lips and violet eyeshadow on a middle-aged woman sitting behind his desk wearing a devious grin like death.

Her eyes were iridescent red. Unreal. And when she spoke, he could see her fangs. He couldn’t hear her words, not at first, but her smooth voice came to him like a memory trailing her lips.

You’re Peter Gray.

Legs giving out, he fell over. Everything flashed bright freezing into pale ghosts.

Strolling on the sidewalk through the Park Blocks near the university, I watched college students heading home from the bars. I wore plastic sunglasses protecting my vision from the street lamps, but the shades also made it more difficult to see anyone possibly hiding within the trees. I doubted anyone would follow me, but I still couldn’t shake the strange feeling of someone tailing me.

Grabbing my attention the most, though, were all the tents pitched in the grass, some with bicycles connected to trailers parked beside them. Roseland had always been a popular home for vagrants due to moderate temperatures and supportive residents, but most of the homeless had always spent the night at shelters or under bridges. It felt strange walking among so many vagrants, and the smell of vomit and piss pushed me back onto the streets.

Heading north, I skirted around the center of town reducing my chances of bumping into the Itoril elite. I passed two Itoril boys. They didn’t show me their fangs, and I didn’t need to see them. Their scent alone told me they were thin on Ithuriel’s blood, practically human.

More bums. I smelled alcohol and feces before I spotted them. Within a stoop, two vagrants huddled under blankets.

Taking advantage of a street crossing, I checked behind me. Nothing followed.

Street crossings also provided ample views of the tall glass tower, Stratton Enterprises, rising above the other buildings. The top of the tower was home for the local magistrate, and I wondered whom currently held the position. While fighting a memory-eating vampire-wraith, I had accidentally murdered the magistrate, my former employer, Stratton. It seemed likely that whomever had risen to position of Magistrate of Roseland also took over as CEO of Stratton Enterprises. The company and Itoril politics were inexorably intertwined.

Itoril law required me to report to the magistrate about my return and operation within the city, but hell with that. I was supposed to be dead, and a phantom I would be.

Even with more litter, more bums, more broken streetlamps, Roseland still felt like home. I knew her curving form embracing the snaking Willamette River, the scent of her evergreen perfume, and more importantly I knew her ghosts.

At the location of my old record store, I stopped to look the building over. I could still see its ghost, clean mortar walls and a wood sign over the door with large letters proclaiming, Kandy Fangs. The name had been Zee’s idea, a joke at first, but the name had caught on. Now, walls darkened by neglect, Roseland Sisters of Sorrows Sanctuary appeared overrun by vagrants flowing onto the street munching on leftover turkey and potatoes.

As I approached a nightclub, I began bouncing to the muffled beat razoring up a steel fire escape, the club losing part of its soul to the building.

Turning at the corner, the bright Girls! Girls! Girls! sign at Red’s nearly blinded me even though it was on the next block over. With all the broken streetlamps, Red’s club stood out like a lighthouse guiding young men and their dollars to its shiny shore. Approaching Red’s, I walked along the brick wall avoiding the path of two men deep in conversation.

Catty-cornered from here, within a door stoop, a pair of vagrants slept within a bundle of blankets and trash. The building appeared abandoned, and the one beside it had a for-lease sign in the window.

The large bearded doorman nodded at me, and I smiled. The door stood open, and curious about my neighbor, I stole a peek. On the stage, a dancer grooved to the music. She wore nothing save sneakers, and leaning over she squeezed her breasts together to the delight of men seated at the edge of the stage. The look on the doorman told me the dancer was not on the menu, and that was fine with me. He asked if I wanted to come in, and I shook my head.

The scent of blood caught my attention.

Across the street, the two bums sat on blankets. The man with his back to the gated door held another twitching and jerking in his arms, and blood soaked their clothing. While he bit into the base of the neck of his victim, his iridescent eyes watched me. The vagrant in his arms fell still; dead.

Marching onto the street, I patted my coat and realized I didn’t have a weapon with me. It wasn’t my business, but more than anything, I couldn’t believe this Itoril had the nerve to kill out in the open. The Itoril man dropped his victim and stood revealing his blood-soaked clothes and a gun. I stopped in the center lane and sized up his weapon.

His handgun looked like a goddamn silver canon, and he had no problem holding a steady aim on me.

His eyes flinched, he pulled the trigger, and I leaned into the silent world. Color faded from him at first along with the buildings, but then he flowed into the stream following me into the ghost-walk.

A quick step to the side, I moved out of the invisible ghost-bullet’s path, and my opponent charged. Feeling as if I’d been suckered into a trap by a territorial blood junky, I did what most sane people did—I ran.

I barely noticed the car when it splashed right through me sending chilling tingles racing up into my head. Walking through the ghost car, I took the opportunity to glance over my shoulder. The murderer, half the distance closer, stopped suddenly sliding on the ghost-pavement and back into a world fading into an apparition. It didn’t make sense. It was as if he wanted to get hit by the car, and he did.

I watched the slow-motion collision, his legs snapping up and his torso landing on the hood of the compact car. I stepped back into the world, and the scene sped up. The sound of screeching tires and fracturing glass hit me like a punch, and I stumbled back nearly tripping on the curb. The Itoril bounced over top of the car and landed nearly head-first onto the pavement.

Pulling his head up, he grinned at me with a crazed expression. He seemed to recognized me, and the accident was some sort of ploy. There was so much blood on him, most of it belonging to his victim. All the red under the streetlights made him look dangerous. He still held his gun, and he used to like a crutch to climb onto his knees.

Two men from Red’s joined me on the sidewalk. An Itoril wearing a biker jacket tugged my arm, and the large doorman came around front holding out his arm as if to shield me. The killer turned away, so I let the muscle from Red’s rescue me.

The driver of the car popped out, and the killer aimed his gun at him. I almost felt like I was watching it on television, but I could smell the blood. The driver stood frozen staring at the blood-soaked killer, and for a moment I thought the driver had met his end.

The killer fled, and Mister Biker pulled me away.

“Let’s get you home,” said Mister Biker. His arm wrapped around my shoulder, and we began walking towards the restaurant. “Kodiak will deal with the cops.”

“Who was that?”

“Vasir,” said Mister Biker. “He thinks he owns the neighborhood now.”

“You should report Vasir.”

“Oh, we have,” said Mister Biker. “This whole Vampire Ice thing has been nothing but a huge clusterfuck for the neighborhood.”

Was Vampire Ice on the streets again?

At the restaurant, I pulled away and leaned against the door. Mister Biker stood close. He glanced down the street at the scene where a mob had gathered.

“What about the magistrate?”

“Nothing,” said Mister Biker. He shrugged. “Now that everyone knows there’s no Reaper, city’s in a mess.”

I always kept forgetting what they had called me on the streets in my former life. Reaper.

“Kandy, are you okay? You look out of sorts, mate.”

Looking at his bald head, his brown eyes, the fuzz on his chin, I searched for him within my memories, but found nothing. He knew me. I could tell by the concerned look on his face.

“Dylan,” he said.

I tried putting on my best reassuring smile and thanked Dylan.

“Have you seen Miranda?” asked Dylan. My blank expression must have answered, because he continued. “My boss. She normally checks in each week, but we haven’t seen her in over a month.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Kodiak’s talking like we won’t get paid at the end of the month,” said Dylan. He shrugged. “Miranda will turn up at some point.”

After wishing Dylan a goodnight, I slipped inside the restaurant and removed my sunglasses. I sped over to the security console and entered the code. There in the gloom, I slumped against the wall.

Dylan had nailed it; I felt out of sorts.

My mentor, and friend, Steve Reynolds had taught me a great deal about the shadows between worlds. The quiet place, he had called it. At first I could only dip a toe in, but soon I could wade downstairs or the next block over. Pass through walls even, only they weren’t walls in the quiet place. Ghosts. Diving deeper into the shadows didn’t lead to a timelessness, instead it came out in world where creatures had a different view on time. I could never reach Purple Hell on my own, but my skill in ghost-walking made up for my small physique in this world.

Earlier on the street, I had been nearly overtaken by a street thug. An Itoril skilled in ghost-walking, but a thug just the same. Vasir had recognized me as the former Roseland Executioner, and instead of attacking me, he had taunted me with how powerful he had become.

I cursed at the empty restaurant, but it didn’t cure my angst.

As I marched up the stairs, I peeled off my coat. Feeling the need to clean my guns, I rounded the corner into the office and took a seat behind the desk. I didn’t bother with the lights, the glow from the computer monitor displaying shifting patterns was enough. My gun case sat on the floor, and leaning over, I snatched it by the handle.

Sitting up, I noticed movement in the hall. At first I thought it was the wraith, and I lurched. Recognizing the shape of a man standing still, I studied his form. Steve, I thought, but this man appeared shorter with a stronger build. He wore a rumpled white shirt and a tie hanging loosely from his neck. No scent, it was as if he stood at the edge of the quiet place.

I was in the silent shadows, I realized, at the edge where the walls and furniture still held color.

The man appeared familiar like he belonged here.

Peter?

The man watched me.

I spoke, words lost to silence, You’re Peter Gray.

Like a ghost, he vanished.

Jumping out of the chair, I ran into the hall searching the stairs. Nothing. I crossed over to the other side, stairs and the second floor rippling away, and I found no sign of the man within the ghost restaurant. Back within the world, I sniffed the air discovering a hint of something different. The scent of Peter Gray.

The thundering engine grew louder between the walls as Peter backed the sixty-seven Fairlane into the drive beside the restaurant. Stopping near the loading dock, he spotted Crank standing near the open door to the kitchen. He cut the engine and doused the lights. The car smelled like leather-care moisturizer mixed with lavender. Old cars came with baggage, the spirits of former owners and all the love or hate that went into the vehicle. This car felt loved.

The background noise of the city crept inside.

Popping open the glove box, he found a pocket-sized pad of paper and two keys on a ring. Ripped edges marked missing pages from the pad. One of the keys was a spare for the car, and the smaller one appeared like a luggage key. He pushed the keys into his pocket and returned the pad to the glove box.

He grabbed the sack holding the framed company picture from the front seat, and climbed out of the car.

“Cool car,” said Crank. He wiggled his cigarette at the Fairlane. “Did you jack it?”

Watching Crank jump back against the wall, Peter realized he glared at the young man. Before making things worse, he hurried inside. The kitchen buzzed with noises as Boris prepared dinner plates full of steamed vegetables and chicken. Avoiding the chef, Peter wound around the back of shelves and out into the dining area heading to the podium where Nine stood explaining the organic selections to a couple.

Slipping the frame out of the sack, Peter hung the photograph on the waiting hook. He looked at the picture of the entire crew noticing how exhausted everyone appeared. Only two smiles, and Nine grinning at Peter instead of the camera.

Nine put a hand on his arm, and looked at the photograph.

“You can barely tell there’s a coffin in the background,” said Nine. She released his arm and turned around giving the restaurant a look over. “Laura is having a bad day. You should talk to her.”

Peter found Laura clearing a table on the second floor, and asked her up to the office. She appeared exhausted with puffy eyes. Her white shirt in disarray, necktie stuffed crookedly between buttons, she looked a mess. As she slumped into the chair, tears flooded her eyes.

“Peter, I can’t do this,” said Laura. She wiped her nose. “I’m really trying, but I’m sorry I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Take your time, Laura,” said Peter. He knelt beside her. “It’s Friday night which means you can sleep in tomorrow. Next week I’ll have another waitress hired, and you’ll be working your regular hours.”

Laura nodded. Tears continued racing down her cheeks.

He stood, taking a deep breath, and said, “I’ll cover for you until you get back.”

Laura leaped out of the chair. “Peter, you totally suck at waiting on tables.”

The comment coming from a sixteen year-old with no prior work experience hit him like a hard right hook in the jaw, but he couldn’t argue. He had no business waiting on tables. Running a restaurant was beginning to look like an uphill battle requiring rope and pitons. And a friend. His sister, Tara, had the smarts, but her bitchy attitude could scare away what little help he had.

“Laura, I mean Nine will cover your tables. I promise.”

She agreed to a second break. Slowly, she shuffled out of the office and into the break room.

As he slipped out of his jacket, Peter heard his name called. It sounded like Tara’s voice coming from down the hall. His sister wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, so it had to be someone else. He dropped his jacket on his chair and left the office.

Passing the break room, he glanced in spotting Laura slouched on the sofa and tugging at her necktie. At the end of the hall on the stairs, a shadow wavered and slipped up the steps.

“Hello?” said Peter.

No one should be on the fourth floor. All the old hotel rooms up there were vacant. The room beside the break room had a bed in case he needed to stay late, but he had only used it once for nap before opening day. Passing the next doorway, he glanced in spotting the coffin resting near the far wall. On the opposite side of the hall, the bathroom door stood open and it was dark inside. Reaching the stairs, he paused to listen.

He heard the din from the dining room, and the rumble of the dishwasher from two floors beneath his feet. Nothing moved at the top of the stairs within the glow of the exit sign.

On his toes, Peter padded up the stairs. A creak gave him away, but he continued sneaking to the top. His shadow stretched down the hall. He called out and listened.

No answer.

As he descended the stairs, he heard his name again. The voice sounded very much like it belonged to his sister, and it came from the restroom. Inside the bathroom, he flipped the light switch bathing the room in bright blue-tinted light. Still appearing much like a shared bathroom for an hotel, it had a tub, toilet, sink, and not much room for more.

The old building made plenty of strange sounds, but it had never called his name before.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Peter turned out the light stepped out of the bathroom.

Appearing at the other end of the hall, Beth huffed. Her scowl hit hard. “Are you going to let the new girl work dressed like that?” she asked.

Recalling Tigris sitting naked behind the desk at Steve Reynolds’s office, he leaped into motion. The last thing he needed was a bad review. He hurried downstairs zipping around Nine and spotted Tiger behind the bar pouring an older gentleman a whisky.

Tiger had on some sort of sleeveless, low-cut blouse nearly resembling a vest with diamond-like buttons. A black bow-tie hugged her bare neck, and a matching ribbon held her hair back. Her black skirt was better than nothing even if it left her legs bare down to her black anklets and Mary Janes. Moving to the beat, Tiger danced like magic as she prepared drinks. Not dancing to the music, not really, Tiger became part of the music.

Everyone loved it. Half the tables were abandoned. Patrons lined up at the bar ordering drinks or chatting with friends, all of them getting into the music in their own way, heads nodding, feet tapping. Tiger infected everyone.

Shoulder bumped, Peter turned meeting Nine’s grin.

“I already told her she’s hired,” said Nine.

At that point, Peter didn’t care how Tiger dressed, and she appeared nice enough in a quirky, elegant way. The old man would never approve of Tiger’s interpretation of the rules, but this wasn’t the old man’s restaurant.

“Tigris knows every drink in the book,” said Nine. She patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, and a nice gentleman from Red’s left a bottle of sparkling wine to welcome us to the neighborhood.”

“Red’s. Isn’t that the club two blocks over?”

“Girls, girls, girls,” said Nine, wiggling her eyebrows with a big smile. “According to the sign, anyway.”

Tiger bounced over, her smile fading as she drew closer. “I have it right, don’t I? White top with black tie.”

“Perfect,” said Peter.

Bouncing on toes, Tiger clapped like a giddy girl. Hand over mouth, Nine held back a laugh. Falling back into sexy mode, Tigris slinked to the bar where two men eagerly waited with credit cards out. Sputtering through her fingers, Nine lost her battle and laughed.

“Tigris is weird,” said Nine, “but she rocks.”

The car hanging on his mind, Peter asked Nine if she had time to take a look. Her face lighting up, she agreed. She squeezed his arm, firmer this time as if she was sizing up his muscles. On the way to the kitchen door, he spotted Beth shooting Tiger a heated scowl from across the room.

In the kitchen, Boris and Crank argued about the proper sauté methods or some such. Whatever it was about, Crank had his serious face on. It didn’t matter. Boris won every cooking argument. Opening the door let in a rush of cold air sending hanging spoons into a jingling chorus. Shaking, Peter folded his arms and let the door slam closed behind him.

“Oh my, God,” said Nine. She nodded at the sixty-seven Ford Fairlane parked in the narrow loading area. “Is this your car?”

“Apparently it’s another gift,” said Peter.

He opened the driver’s side door, and she peeked inside.

“Beautiful,” said Nine, “I never thought I’d see the interior of a car older than Dad’s hearse.”

Deciding to give the car a look over, Peter popped the trunk open and lifted the lid. Inside, he found baggage. A guitar case and briefcase rested on a large suitcase. The briefcase was locked.

“Who’s luggage?” asked Nine. Folding her arms, she shivered.

The suitcase appeared to be locked, too.

Spotting Nine shaking, her teeth on the verge of chattering, Peter reached around and pulled her close, rubbing her shoulder. It felt unusually cold for November in Roseland, and the misting made it worse. Nine pressed in close, and Peter felt her breasts against his side. She felt like she belonged in his arm.

Rising up on her toes, she kissed him on the cheek, and slipped down. Her expression darkened, and she looked down at the luggage in the trunk. In a whisper, she apologized, but she continued holding him.

Without letting Nine go, Peter fished the keys out of his pocket and, together, they leaned into the trunk. The small key from the glove box fit the briefcase, and the latch popped open. Peter lifted the lid finding a dark foam interior with six form-fitting cradles holding two pistols facing each other and four ammunition magazines.

“Peter,” said Nine, “please tell me you didn’t buy guns for the restaurant.”

“Must belong to the former owner,” said Peter. He closed the case. Imagining more weapons in the suitcase, he didn’t feel like opening it.

The misting threatened rain, but lapsed into its usual Roseland sputter. Two blocks away, music pumped out of the open door of a club, Red’s, according to the glowing sign. Pink neon promised, Girls! Girls! Girls! like a dinner bell ringing in my mind. Neighbors open late improved my chances of remaining unnoticed by familiar eyes within the aristocracy of my kind. The high-and-mighty didn’t frequent this rundown part of town, either. The neighborhood wasn’t as bad as Old Town, but it appeared to be heading in that direction, more grunge and broken streetlamps than I recalled. The gloom didn’t stop the handful of patrons heading in and out of Red’s, but the promise of nude women never did.

The joy of being home again met the disquiet of changes to my city: the grunge, unfamiliar car designs, an oversized phone with a blazingly bright screen a man carried, and the illuminated glasses his buddy wore on his nose. It only seemed like minutes for me, but on the other side of the shadows, time worked differently. I imagined I had been away from this side of the veil a few years, maybe more.

A tag dangled from the key, and I read the security code on it making sure I had it right before opening the door. There were two locks, one on the glass door and another on the sliding security cage, which squealed terribly.

Autumn Twilight Restaurant smelled like stale peanuts, moth balls, and spilled beer hiding somewhere near the stage. It needed a sweeping, too. Even with only the green glow of the exit sign, the layer of dust on the floor was visible revealing a number of shoe-prints.

Red light blinking in time to beeping, the security panel in the side hall beside the stairs called me. I hurried over and punched in the code. Satisfied with my numbers, the blinking red light turned a solid green.

Formerly a hotel with a lobby and dining room on the bottom floor, the wall between the two rooms had been replaced by a row of pillars opening the floor up. I recalled watching a jazz band jam away on that stage back when jazz was still cool. The second floor had been turned into a balcony floor overlooking the stage, a brilliant idea. It made the restaurant feel warmer and more inviting.

Self-conscious of intruding ears, I padded quietly up the stairs across the second floor landing, and up to the third floor. The hallway still appeared like an old hotel, but the small service doors had been boarded up in an attempt to look more like part of the wall. They didn’t really. They appeared more like cupboard doors without handles. The doorway on the left opened to a room with a desk bathed in the glow of the computer monitor; the office. On the right, the first room down the hall was the break room complete with humming refrigerator, sofa, coffee maker beneath cupboards, table, and chairs. No window, glowing numbers on the microwave oven cast a blue glow. The next room was empty, and the one after actually had a bed and table. And garbage. Someone had left a pile of paper food containers and on the bed table and floor along with a few plastic bottles. I frowned at all the cleaning the place needed. The fourth room brought my feet to a halt.

The green glow from the exit sign in the hall crept into the windowless room revealing a coffin against the wall. Leaning into the shadows between worlds, I peeked at the pale form of the coffin rising out of the darkness. An old hotel room seemed like an odd place for a coffin. At my former residence, I had kept a coffin in a basement. Reinforced with steel and welded shut, I had used the box as a safe to hide documents and my expensive sword. This coffin resembled mine, and for a moment, I thought it was mine, but even in the pale ghost-light I could see it was all wood. Stepping back into the world, I approached the box.

My Itoril eyes could make out the shape, but the ambient light wasn’t enough to read details. I closed my eyes and flipped the light on. Waiting for my vision to adjust, sneaking peeks, I heard the floor groan beneath my feet and the walls answer with crackles.

A bed table stood beside the coffin, and on it a metronome. I started the pendulum swinging, imagining the device left behind by a jazz man, and listened to the tock sounds.

I lifted the coffin lid and leaned it against the wall.

Like my coffin-safe, this box didn’t have a cushion or a pillow for sleeping on. The red liner felt smooth, but the bottom appeared too high. Switching my gaze between outside and in, I estimated the height of the bottom to be a good six inches from the ground. Lifting the side of the coffin up, I found the bottom flush. Why was the bottom so thick? Running my hand along the inside edges, I felt along the smooth liner finding nothing unusual.

Taking a deep breath, I gathered my strength and dove into the silence of the shadows between worlds. The pendulum slowed to a crawl, fading into a ghost, and the rest of the metronome followed along with the bed table, pale forms nearly frozen in time.

The coffin turned pale then ethereal revealing the skeleton of a double-bottom with an inch gap. Inside the gap, near the head of the coffin, a rectangular shape caught my attention. It appeared like cardboard or heavy folded paper. A wire connected a lever to a round peg.

I returned back in normal time watching the coffin become solid, and sound snapping in my ear. The pendulum ticked.

Lining up my hand with where I had seen the hidden peg, I hit the bottom. A pop, and the entire floor of the box bounced shaking loose. Pushing down on the near side made the back side lift far enough to grab, and I pulled the thin false bottom out and set it on the carpet.

Pretty sneaky, and I could only think of one man that would have devised a secret compartment in a box that resembled my old coffin: Steve Reynolds.

Picking up the heavy parchment, I unfolded it. A plastic card slipped out falling onto my lap. I picked it up and read my name, Kandy Knight, above a fourteen-digit number pressed into the plastic. It appeared much like a credit card, but without an expiration date or magnetic strip. I felt a square bulge in the corner, an embedded smart chip. The backside contained service instructions for a financial institution where I assumed I’d find my money.

I read the letter written on the inside of the parchment.

Dear Kandy,

I’m terribly sorry, but your coffin was damaged by looters. This replacement was the best I could do. I’ve entrusted your return with Peter Gray, and by now I imagine you two are getting along famously. This is my gift to you, your exit from Itoril politics and your life on your terms.

This is your time.

Best wishes,

Steve Reynolds

After reading the letter again, I glanced around the room as if I might find an answer written on the wall somewhere. All I could fathom was that some part of Steve’s plan had gone wrong.

“Who’s Peter Gray?”

After a busy day of going through résumés, printing the company photograph, and picking out flowers—regretting not bringing someone along with more floral knowledge—Peter was running late. Boris had the fort under control, but having a small staff worried him. More concerning, the coffin and its contents demanded explanation.

It was already dark out, nearly quitting time for most office slaves, and it appeared dark inside the building. The glass door provided a view of a hallway leading to one side, and somewhere around the corner a dim light splashed the white tile. Passing headlights cast sweeping shadows of the pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk, day workers heading home or to happy hour. Glancing up at the street number over the door, he checked the address against the note on his phone.

He had tried the office several times on the phone with no answer, and seeing the dim light left a sinking feeling in his gut. Maybe the information was bogus, or the sender had bailed.

Tentatively, he grasped the door handle assuming it wasn’t going to open, but it did. He hefted his shopping bag under arm and slipped inside.

The short hall led to a nearly empty room, spacious for what appeared to be a reception area. Three closed doors lined the back, and one glass door provided a view of a room half-lit by a window looking out on the street on the opposite side of the building. The front desk, white like everything else, stood against the near wall beneath silver lettering spelling out the name of the owner, Steve Reynolds. Nearly hidden behind the high counter around the desk, a lamp on a craned neck provided the only illumination.

“Hello?”

No answer, but Peter thought he could hear the dull drumming of music. Growing louder, it became the unmistakable sound of half-music squeaking from headphones. Approaching the counter, he spotted the top of a brunette bobbing in time to the music.

Reading something on her desk, the woman appeared relaxed nodding to her music coming from her white earbuds. Suddenly, her gaze shot up and she yelped, covering her mouth with one hand.

“Excuse me,” said Peter.

Glaring at him, she pulled on the wires popping her earbuds out. “How did you get in here?” she asked.

“Door’s open.”

Heat escaping her face, she dropped her head into hands, her straight hair falling over her hands. In a muffled voice, she cursed herself for not locking the front door. Head flipping up, hair landing on her bare shoulders, she gazed up at him and apologized.

Peter leaned an arm on the chest-high counter, and the woman shrunk down lower. Catching a glimpse, he realized more than her shoulders were bare. As he leaned in for a better view, she drew closer keeping her small breasts hidden behind the narrow counter. He had no doubt, the receptionist was topless.

“So, how can I help you?” asked the receptionist.

“I’m not sure if this is the right place, but I received a delivery from Steve Reynolds.”

“Sure, this was his office.”

He was about to continue, but stumbled. He glanced up at the man’s name on the wall. “What do you mean? This isn’t Reynolds’s office anymore?”

“Steve Reynolds is no longer with us.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter.

He tried to concentrate on his task, but the unexpected reply threw off his entire speech he had planned arguing the usual indifference. Her bare skin teased him, breaking his focus. He imagined she worked on the side as a stripper, and she had a cam back there showing off to web visitors. Of course, imagination had a way of running on its own around beautiful women.

“I’m Tigris,” said the woman, “my friends call me, Tiger.” Raising her hand, she clawed the air and growled like a girl teasing a baby.

She appeared both adorable and creepy at the same time.

“What did you say your name was?” said Tigris.

“Peter Gray.” Business with the coffin came back to him, and he dropped into autopilot. “I received a package—a coffin containing what looks like a very expensive sword and some other items. It must be a mistake, and I want to straighten it out.”

“Right,” said Tiger. She clicked the mouse and tapped the keyboard. “Let’s look you up, Peter Gray.” More mouse clicks. “Here we are.”

Tiger set three documents down on the counter, and Peter looked at them. Confusion struck him until he spotting the insignia for the motor vehicles department, a car registration for a sixty-seven Ford Fairlane.

“Hey, Tiger, I came to get answers not take more shit.”

“It’s a cool car. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” Arm extended, she held out a key.

“No you don’t understand,” said Peter. Reflexes taking over, he took the car key. “Inside the coffin I found bags of blood.”

“Blood?” said Tigris, scrutinizing him.

“Yes, within a canister inside the coffin. Two bags of blood, a small bag of a nearly clear substance, and a notebook.”

Peter removed the composition book from his shopping bag. Flipping it open to the first page, he removed a loose sheet of paper and set it on the counter.

“This is a letter from Steve Reynolds. The sword a nice gift, but the rest makes me think Reynolds got the wrong Peter Gray. It says the packs of blood are for Kandy Knight. Who’s Kandy?”

“Right there in front of you,” said Tigris. The creepy side of her grew like a weed, and a fire blossomed in her eyes. She appeared dangerous.

According to the registration, Kandice Knight owned the car. The next document was a letter of authority allowing ownership transfer of the vehicle signed by Steve Reynolds and dated four years ago. The final document, Kandice Knight’s death certificate noted cause of death as presumed dead.

A dead person didn’t need blood.

“Okay, Tiger, let me read the letter to you, and you tell me if there’s a mistake.”

“It’s all right here on the computer,” said Tiger. Mouse click. “One Reaper’s Box coffin and one Fairlane car for Peter Gray at Autumn Twilight.”

No mention of the sword or blood on ice. The contents within the coffin weren’t documented.

There was nothing right about any of this. People didn’t give away expensive things for charity. Food and clothing, sure, never cars and coffins. Nobody gave coffins to the living. And why was Tiger naked? Outside of the adult entertainment industry, women didn’t work in the nude, certainly not receptionists. It was probably against a health code.

“That’s you, right? Peter at Autumn Twilight?”

“Well, yes.”

Like a flower blooming in stop-motion photography, Tiger exploded with adorable cuteness, a closed-lip smile beaming with the tenderness of a kitten looking for love.

“Enjoy!”

Holding the letter, Peter was about to continue reading the letter to Tiger, but he doubted the receptionist could make any more sense out of the letter than he could. Only Steve Reynolds could explain it, or maybe Kandy Knight. For the third time, he read the handwritten letter.

The solution I’ve left you is the only cure. Measure a thousand cubic centimeters of the solution and administer to yourself. It will be painful, and you may suffer hallucinations. Fear not, it will pass. Once the remedy fully takes effect, the next step will become obvious.

For Miss Knight, mix with the same volume of the solution with the blood I’ve provided. You have my notes in the unlikely event you need to produce more. Keep the remedy safe, and destroy the composition book once you’ve recovered Miss Knight.

The sword is my gift to you. I’m certain you’ll find it a perfect fit. As for the coffin, it is a replacement for the one broken by looters in Miss Knight’s former residence. If she will not have the coffin, you may do what you like with it.

With great sympathy,

Steve Reynolds

The letter didn’t mention the powder that had been inside the test tube, erupting from the coffin after breaking the seal on the lid. He hadn’t felt any ill effects since inhaling the dust, and Nine appeared fine. The letter also didn’t provide any indication of what the solution was intended to cure, and deciphering the pages within the notebook required a chemist.

“Peter Gray, is Autumn Twilight hiring?”

“Sure,” said Peter. Autopilot took control of his lips, repeating the same phrase he’d uttered several times during the day. “I’m looking for a bartender and another waitress.”

“Cool,” said Tiger.

Looking up, Peter caught sight of Tiger’s naked backside. Slim, she moved more gracefully than a person should. She pulled a T-shirt on falling nearly to her knees. Her feet in short stockings with frilly tops, she scooted her feet across the floor, skating in almost child-like antics, but smooth like a dancer.

On the stairs spiraling to the underground garage, Tiger filled him in. Steve Reynolds had worked as an antique and art dealer, which might explain the sword. He also had operated an automotive shop on the side. “Among other things,” said Tiger. A wink, but she didn’t elaborate. Tiger had never been employed by Steve Reynolds, but the task of moving the last of the items in storage to their proper owners had fallen to her. There were no mistakes, she insisted, Steve Reynolds and his secretary had kept detailed records.

“No returns,” said Tiger, waving her hand. “I want it all gone like the Dodo bird.”

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the black classic car, Peter felt dazed and exhausted. He could handle the insurance, but what worried him was the understanding that everything came with a price. Bad things balanced out the good events in life, and a free classic car meant a heavy price tag was lurking out there somewhere. Coming from a mysterious departed man only made it feel worse like a setup by some criminal organization.

Tiger leaned over peering into the open window, her flowery perfume flowing inside. Her oversized shirt hanging down offered a glimpse of her small breasts, but her face demanded attention. Her hazel eyes simmered like fractured glass over a fire. Her closed-lip smile, warm, spoke volumes about life and love. Bewitching.

“Sorry I didn’t get your car to you sooner,” said Tiger. Smile growing, her lips parted revealing a row of perfect white incisors framed by large canine teeth. “I’ll stop by Autumn Twilight later to show you my skills.”

Studying her, Peter realized her eye teeth were too long disappearing behind her lower lip.

Fangs.

Peeling his gaze from her teeth, he looked around the garage trying to focus his thoughts on something else. Tigris could be one of those vampire groupies like the ones frequenting Club Necropolis, and her odd behavior switching between childlike princess and sex kitten supported that notion. Two other cars sat in the garage, an expensive four-door sedan and an old Japanese compact. He supposed the cheap compact belonged to Tigris. Staring at her car, he saw her teeth in his mind along with those simmering coals burning into him.

“You’re going to love this car, Peter at Autumn Twilight.”

“Would you like to buy it?” said Peter. He didn’t need the car. “A hundred bucks?”

Tiger jabbed him in the shoulder. “Don’t be a tease,” she said.

Peter turned the ignition, and the engine roared like thunder shaking him. An auto-shop on the side, indeed, he thought. The engine sounded like it had more horsepower than the muscle car could handle. He revved the throttle, feeling the pounding pistons, and Tiger gave him a thumbs-up.

The Fairlane had a manual transmission, rare these days. The army had trained him on driving with a clutch and stick, so he put the car in first gear while watching Tiger smiling at him.

Adorable and dangerous, that was Tigris in a nutshell.

Driving up the ramp onto the street, Peter gripped the steering wheel. He glanced in the mirrors every few seconds expecting the lights of a patrol car. He had the registration, but driving the Fairlane felt like a crime.

Peter knew one way or another something was going to bite him for this.